


Man in Chains

by lhunuial



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Expansion, Gen, Humiliation, Imprisonment, Rohan, Rohirrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lhunuial/pseuds/lhunuial
Summary: Éomer returns to Edoras after dealing with the Orcs that captured Merry and Pippin, and finds himself thrown into prison because of the poisonous words of Wormtongue.





	1. The Ride Home

“The spare horses are to be lent to the strangers.”  
  
There was great wonder among Éomer’s éored when they heard their Marshal’s command. Many of the men cast dark and doubtful glances at each other and their commander. They remained silent though. Éothain got the reins of the three spare horses and led them to Éomer. While he handed the horses over he cocked an eyebrow. His eyes rested upon the strangers.  
  
“It may be well enough for a lord of the race of Gondor, as he claims to be,” the man of Rohan said, ‘but who has ever heard of a horse of the Mark being given to a Dwarf?”  
  
Gimli turned to face him. He put his axe away. “No one. Do not be troubled, for none shall hear of it. I would rather walk, than sit on the back of any beast so great or free.”  
  
Aragorn looked at the Dwarf, whom had been his friend for many miles now. He could understand his reasoning, but nevertheless they were in great need of haste. “But you must ride now, or you will hinder us. And I would not leave you behind.”  
  
A hand was placed on the Dwarf’s shoulder and Gimli looked up. Next to him stood Legolas. He had a smile on his face. “Come, Master Dwarf. You shall sit behind me. Then all will be well.”  
  
Éomer took the reins from Éothain and he led a dark grey horse to Aragorn. The Ranger mounted the horse and scratched it behind his ears. “Hasufel is his name,” the third Marshal said. “May he bear you to better fortune than his former master.”  
  
A smaller and lighter horse was brought to Legolas. It was a fiery and restive steed. Arod was his name. On Legolas’s request the saddle and rein were taken off. “I need them not,” he explained. To strengthen his words the Elf leaped up lightly and to everyone’s wonder Arod was willing and tame beneath him. He moved here and there with but a spoken word, as was the elvish way with all good animals. Gimli was lifted up behind his friend and he clung to him.  
  
Éomer took the reins of his own horse, which was named Firefoot. It was a grey and fiery stallion, who seemed eager to walk. The Marshal mounted him and put his helmet back on his golden head. He looked at Aragorn. “Farewell and may you find what you seek. Return as swiftly as you may, so our swords will shine together afterwards.”

And with that they parted. Swiftly the horses of Rohan ran, so that within a matter of minutes they were small and far away already.

 

~***~

 

The éored made good time in their return to Edoras. Their delay by their encounter with the lord Aragorn and his companions would not fall good and they should return to the capital with greater speed than usual. In the front of the group rode Éomer. He was silent as he led his company forward. Many thoughts filled his mind and they troubled him. What he said to Aragorn, that he might have put his very life into the hands of the Dúnadan was true. In the eyes of Théoden King he was already covered by a bad shadow, due to leaving to chase the Orcs against his orders. He did not know what would happen if he were to tell the King about the fact that he allowed three strangers to wander freely across Rohan and even borrowing two of their horses. What lies would Wormtongue feed his uncle? What lies would he hear and could not defend himself against him, for in his uncle’s ears his true words were lies now. Every word he said was twisted to place Wormtongue in a better view.

Wormtongue…

He was the source of all his problems. The King’s state had become worse since he came into view. Ever since Wormtongue became the King’s counsellor the Kingdom of Rohan started to fall. During that time Saruman started to attack Rohan with his Orcs as well and they became more and more frequent. He often wondered if they were related, if they had anything to do with each other. But even though he thought about this he knew he could never prove this to the King. There was no evidence.

“My lord Éomer…”

The son of Éomund looked up and saw that Éothain now rode beside him. “What is the matter, Éothain?”

Éothain’s face was grim and he looked troubled. “Have you thought about the matter, lord, giving our horses to these strangers?”

Éomer sighed. “Yes. It was the right thing to do. One should not forsake their friends.”

“But you have disobeyed the King’s law! Your life could be at stake now.”

“Silence, Éothain.” Éomer growled. “Sometimes the right thing to do is to disobey the law. If my life is forfeit by doing the right thing, then it is so. My conscience is clear. And that will be the last thing I say about this matter.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Firefoot was urged to run faster and the horse did so immediately. The rest of the ride home took place in silence. The only words uttered were orders.

 


	2. The Law of the Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éomer gets thrown into the dungeons after learning of his cousin Théodred's death.

Several hours later the riders reached Edoras. The gate to the city were barred and guarded by many men. But as soon as they saw Eomer, they opened the gates and let him in. The éored rode upon a broad path, paved with stones. They came pass several wooden homes and many dark doors. Near the path was a stream of bright water. At last they reached the top of the hill and there Éomer dismounted. He knew he should report his return to the King immediately and handed Éothain the reins of Firefoot. Then he took a deep breath and made his way to Meduseld.

In front of the doors stood Háma, the Doorwarden. He bowed to the Third Marshal and greeted him. “Hail, lord Éomer. I am pleased to you have returned from your skirmish unscathed. Ill news has come in your absence. The King is much displeased you left against his order.”

“I know, Háma.” Éomer answered. “Yet I must report to him. There are tidings he needs to hear.”

The Doorwarden nodded and opened the doors. “I will announce your arrival. Wait here.” He disappeared inside. Éomer waited. The moment of his doom was near at hand. His heart beat fast in his chest. Alas for his people that the things were now the way they were. He acted out of the best interest for Rohan, yet the King’s eyes were blind for it.

Shortly thereafter Hama returned. “The King awaits you, lord. I wish you luck. Wormtongue sits beside the King and he whispers again.”

Éomer nodded and entered the place he grew up in. It seemed warm and ark there. The hall was long and filled with shadows and filtered light. Mighty pillars supported the golden roof. Here and there sunbeams touched the ground like bright arrows. At the end of the hall sat in the middle on a throne his uncle. His back was bent out of old age and he seemed almost a Dwarf, but his white hair was long and thick. A thin golden crown was placed on his head. His beard fell like snow on his knees, but his eyes seemed to be burning as he looked at Éomer. Behind the King stood a woman clad in white, Éowyn. She was tall and was very serious. She as well looked at Éomer. At the other side of the King stood a man with a pale face, Wormtongue. The counsellor bent to the King and it seemed like he listened to him.

Slowly Éomer stepped forward and bowed to his king. “Hail, Théoden King. I have returned.”

Wormtongue rose to his feet and walked towards Éomer. “So we see, Éomer, son of Éomund. The King was most displeased that you disobeyed his orders and left to chase Orcs.”

The Marshal removed his helmet and lowered his eyelids out of his respect for his uncle the King, ignoring Wormtongue as much as possible. “Yes, lord. But the Orcs will no longer threaten the villages. We did battle with them and slew them.”

Théoden did not move. He just sat in his throne like a sickly child, capable of nothing. Wormtongue raised his head. “And?”

“We lost fifteen men and twelve horses. The group was larger and stronger than I had anticipated.” He awaited the response to this loss with anticipation and anxiety.

Wormtongue’s eyes widened and an evil gleam appeared in his eyes. There was also some sort of provocation there. “Fifteen men and twelve horses? All lost because you could only think of battle. Those lives are now wasted when they could have been used to defend Edoras. You left Edoras defenceless. Did you think of that, Éomer son of Éomund?”

Éomer’s eyes started to burn. “Those Orcs could have plundered many villages, killing many innocent people. And because I interfered they did not. Was Edoras under attack in my absence?”

There was silence.

”Was it?”

“No it was not.” Wormtongue admitted, but hated to do so. It meant Éomer was right. But he had another point to say. “Yet you took away forces from Edoras, while there were attacks on the Westfold, attacks that caused the death of lord Théodred.”

Those words left Éomer speechless. His eyes widened and he seemed like struck with an arrow in the middle of a scream. Théodred was dead? “How? When?”

Wormtongue’s eyes flickered dangerously. “You did not know of this? How odd. We assumed you did because you left Aldburg. Lord Théodred was slain at the Fords of the Isen three days ago.”

It took all of Éomer’s willpower to not burst into anger in front of Wormtongue. How he longed to rip his heart out. He had not known any of this. Was it another one of Worm’s schemes to place him into bad daylight with the King? What was he to do against this? There was nothing he could do. He watched as Wormtongue returned to the King who spoke softly with him. It was silent for a while, but then the pale counsellor spoke again.

“Théoden King wishes to know why you are late. You should have returned hours ago, when in fact you shouldn’t have left at all.”

Éomer took a deep breath. He tried to remain calm. “I am late for I had an encounter on the ride home. Three strangers crossed Rohan. They were on a quest to retrieve their friends, whom had been taken captive by Orcs. Since I was already late and I felt naught to fight three men I allowed them to go and I lend them horses to speed their way.”

Then it was silent in the hall. But not for long. For Wormtongue came with a pointing finger and stood in front of the Marshal of the Mark. “You allowed strangers to walk freely across our lands? That is against the law of the King, Éomer. And you lend them horses as well? It gets even better!”

The counsellor turned to the King. “My Lord, not only has he acted against your will, but he has disobeyed the law. He might have brought Rohan in great danger by allowing these strangers free passing. And he gives orders as he sees fit, acting as if he were king in your stead, my Lord. He is a traitor; he seeks to rule Rohan himself.”

At this Éomer could not contain himself. He burst out into anger and unsheathed his sword Gúthwinë. Before Wormtongue even realised what was going on he found himself pushed against one of the pillars. He was held firmly by Éomer and found a sword pointed at his throat.

“You lie! I only wanted to protect our country. I seek no such thing. My loyalties lie only with my King and my country. I see what you do, Wormtongue. I see how you poison my uncle with your honeyed tongue! I would have your head, Wormtongue, for it is you who brings Rohan to ruin with your ‘counsel’!”

While those words were uttered Théoden finally moved and he looked at his nephew. He rose slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on a short black staff. “Silence, sister-son! You know the law of the hall.”

Éomer bent his head and sighed, while he released Wormtongue. The latter crawled back to the King and knelt before him with pleading eyes. “My lord, he has threatened me to death. What have I ever done to him? I have only ever served you, my lord. You should put him into prison, as the law of the hall commands.”

Théoden listened intently, while he kept his eyes on his nephew. “Such is the law of the hall. Éomer, it grieves me to do this for you are my sister-son. But I cannot allow you to threaten Gríma in my hall. You will be put in the dungeons of Meduseld until further notice.”

Wormtongue looked at the Royal Guard. They did not move and seemed somewhat hesitant to follow the order. “You heard the orders of your King. Put Éomer, son of Éomund, into the dungeons.”

Slowly the men did as they were told. Éomer was put into chains. He was stripped of his armour and his sword was taken from him. The proud Marshal lowered his head in defeat. This was the end. The men guarded him as they walked towards the dungeons, going down the stairs. Háma entered the hall for he heard the commotion. He stood nailed to the floor as he saw with his very own eyes what happened to the lord Éomer and he watched as Éomer disappeared from his sight to be put in the dungeons below the hall.

 


	3. In the Dungeon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éomer receives three visitors during his time in the Meduseld dungeons. Not all visitors have the best intentions.

The door to the prison was opened and Éomer was brought inside. The cuffs were removed, but only because he was to be chained against the wall by his arms and his ankles. Thus the Marshal of the Eastmark was left. He was become a prisoner in his own home, stripped of his title and stripped of his honour. How long he stood there, chained against the wall, he did not know. Time was irrelevant at this point. There was no light in his cell, all was dark. There was layer of hay on the ground and a wooden bed against the other wall, but that was all. He was alone.

His strength faded with the minute and his spirit darkened. For the first few hours he stood tall and with his head lifted high against the wall, but this changed. Slowly his head fell forward until his chin rested upon his chest and his eyes closed. Thoughts continued to run through his mind.

How did it come to this? Never in his life would he have thought that he would end up a prisoner in the house he grew up in. All he did was act in the best interest of his country, protecting it when his King would not. But he could not protect the King because the King, his beloved uncle, would not be protected. He had exposed himself to the schemes of Wormtongue and would not be saved from it.

And now Théodred was dead and he was a prisoner. There was no one now left to stand up to Wormtongue in whatever way possible. Wormtongue could have his way with Rohan, surrender it to its enemies without any resistance. And he could do nothing about it. He was trapped here. If only he had acted sooner, forgetting the law of the hall and slay Wormtongue when he had the chance. Now it was too late.

There was no hope now. If only the lord Aragorn would come if he had the chance. But when he would come, would that be on time? Maybe when he arrived he would only find the remains of Rohan. But he would come if he had the chance. There was honesty and honour in the man from the North. And when he would come he would come to help Rohan in its hour of need. That was something he was sure of. But would it be on time?

A sound reached his ears. The door to his cell opened slowly. Éomer opened his eyes and lifted his weary head. When he saw who entered his prison he clenched his teeth and made his hands into fists. In front of him stood Wormtongue. With him were a few men who looked none too friendly.

His honeyed voice filled the air, sizzling like a snake. “Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?" Grima chuckled and circled around in his view. His pale face was barely visible in the dimness, but the Rider was certain that the expression was as gloating as the tone. "Where is the helm and the hauberk...?" Wormtongue asked, plucking at Éomer's stained tunic. He laughed softly and stroked Éomer's hair, which was sweaty and dirty. "And the bright hair flowing? How does the rest go, Éomer? You, as one of the King’s most loyal subjects should know it.” Before Éomer could even utter a reply, Wormtongue raised his hand to silence him. “No, wait, I have it. Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?"  
  
Grima continued to circle him, still toying with Éomer's hair in a way that made him feel very uncomfortable. He flinched, but did this not stop Wormtongue’s taunting. "They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow and have gone down into west behind the hills into shadow... Heavy words that now describe the Mark."  
  
"You brought them upon us, Wormtongue. This is all your doing!" Éomer managed to hiss those words in his anger and helplessness.  
  
Grima was suddenly before him, eyes glinting in the shadows. "Did I?” He thought about that for a while. “Oh, yes, I did. You would do well to never forget that"  
  
"I would never forget treachery like yours."  
  
A smirk appeared on Wormtongue’s face. “Ah, but there is nothing now you can do about it. Nothing you can do while I take the treasury of Rohan that is mine.”  


Éomer growled in the back of his throat. He knew what Wormtongue was hinting at. He had seen it early already. At first he thought nothing of it, but then when she was older and he saw Wormtongue following her around, ever watching her with his hungry eyes he knew what the worm’s desire was. It made him mad that he could go after her with no one to stop him. The proud man of Rohan lowered his eyes. Always had he protected his little sister, from anyone, and now when she needed him most he could not be there for her. He had failed her, like he had failed everyone.  


“Stay away from her, snake! Touch her and I will smite you I will.”  


Laughter with a sarcastic undertone filled the cell. Wormtongue’s eyes gleamed again. “Oh, but you can’t. For you are here, chained to the wall.” He brought his face close to Éomer’s, whispering: “How does it feel for you, Éomer son of Éomund, to be a prisoner in the place you call home? How does it feel to be helpness, desperate, alone? There is no one who can help you now.”  
  
The former Marshal of the Riddermark suddenly raised his head. His eyes burned as he drilled them into Wormtongue’s. There was still some pride in him left and there was something that he knew that Wormtongue didn’t. “There is, Wormtongue. There is someone out there who will help me, who will help Rohan.”  
  
Wormtongue stepped backwards. His face was now stern and there seemed to be little left of his taunting mood with which he had set foot in the prison. He was not amused by this statement at all. “You are a fool, Éomer.” And then he slowly left the dungeons of the golden hall.  
  
Yet his lackeys did not leave. They positioned themselves in front of the chained man. There was nothing he could read from their eyes and then he felt what they were up to. Fists pounded into his chest. Blow after blow after blow. He collapsed from the sheer force. Little did he realise that the screams he heard came from his own throat. How long they kept on going at him he did not know. He did not even see the hilt of a knife as it glimmered in the light of the candles. All he knew was the pain and the taste of his own blood.  
  
When they finally left him he was a wreck. Éomer did not stand any longer, he hung in his chains. His skin was covered with a layer of sweat and his hair hung wildly around his face. The piece of clothing he had called a shirt was torn a little and hung from his torso. It was stained with blood. He was covered in bruises and cuts of the knife. What strength he had was now gone. He seemed to float on the edge of unconsciousness.

  
~****~

 

Éomer was so far gone that he was vaguely aware of the light footsteps that drew nearer. The lock on the door was opened after a few demanding whispers. Suddenly he felt something wet and cold on his face. With evenly paces and steady strokes a piece of cloth moved over his face to clean him up. He knew that hand. It brought him back to reality.  
  
“Éowyn,” he murmured.  
  
“Sssh,” he heard her say. “Do not speak.” She moved her hand to his torso and lifted the shirt. Her face showed barely anything, but in her eyes the anger built as she saw her brother’s bruises.  
  
“You should not be here.”  
  
Imperturbable she continued to clean him and tend the bruises. “You are my brother. I have every right to be here.”  
  
With a sarcastic tone he replied. “Some brother you have. I am sorry, Éowyn. I have failed."  
  
She lowered her eyelids and her hand stopped moving, resting against his chest. “You did all you could. Do not worry for me, I will be alright.”  
  
After Éowyn was finished tending his injuries she wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed herself close against him, like she had done as a little girl whenever she needed his protective strength and his comfort.  
  
“What will happen now, Éomer?”  
  
Éomer placed a loving kiss on her golden head and sighed. He did not know how to comfort her now, when all hope seemed lost for themselves and their kingdom. “I do not know, Éowyn. It all seems dark to me now…” For a moment he was silent, as if he thought about some matter. “I hope, Éowyn, for a west wind to shake the boughs.”  
  
She looked at him, her long loved brother and rock in the storm. He was all she had, the only one who had ever been there for her. But she did not understand him now, or the words that came from his mouth, or the glint in his blue eyes. Then Éowyn pulled her arms away. “I should go. Uncle needs me.”  
  
He nodded. If only he could touch her now, reach out with his hand to her. But he couldn’t. “Watch over him, Éowyn, and watch over yourself.”  
  
“I will.” And then she left him, alone with the silence and the darkness of his cell once again. He watched until the last glimpse of her white dress disappeared up the stairs.  
  
Long hours passed. None of the guards spoke with him and so no news came to him. He just stood there chained to the wall. Sometimes a few rats rushed before his feet. The darkness seemed choking. No changes came for his situation, everything remained the same. It exhausted him, yet he could not lay himself to rest. His eyes closed and opened again in a flash, until he struggled no longer to keep awake, just in case something happened. It was an odd position to sleep, but at last he slept.  
  
How long he slept he didn’t know, but it must have been quite a while. From a distance he heard his name called. Slowly but steadily Éomer became conscious again. He opened his eyes. It took him a while before his eyes were adjusted to the darkness again. Then he saw who awoke him from his slumbers. It was Háma the Doorwarden. What was he doing here? A few iron clicks could be heard and he found he could move his arms freely again. His bonds were gone. Éomer stood shakily on his own legs; his strength had not yet returned to him. While he tried to walk, watched by Háma’s blissful eyes, he stumbled. Quickly the Doorwarden was there to offer a supporting shoulder.  
  
“All is well now, lord Éomer. You are free and Théoden King asks for you.”  
  
Éomer’s eyes widened as he heard this. Had his hope come true now after all the darkness? His spirit returned to him and as swiftly as his legs could carry him the young lord made his way outside of the dungeons. He took a deep breath of fresh air. Now the air was free again. Then he looked at Háma, whom had not left his side.  
  
“Bring me my sword, Háma.”

 


End file.
